Book of Ellagar

Chapter 19: Harbor

With a swipe of her hand, Ellagar dismissed the Archive of Time, allowing the scrolls to return to their ethereal vault. The past few weeks had been a chance to heal and prepare to leave this home. She glanced at the silent Mother Tree above her, its ancient branches like protective arms. She sighed, a knot of unease tightening in her chest. The Dragon Cult, the Wyrm Lords as they called themselves, had been silent. But Ellagar could feel them—an undercurrent of tension in the air, a creeping sense of something horrible taking shape. Something she could not yet fully grasp.

The thick, humid air of the swamp clung to Ellagar's scales, heavy and stifling. It was a physical reminder of the storm that loomed—both outside and within. She sat beside the stagnant pond, watching the twilight flicker in ripples across the water. Her mind churned with the implications of what she had learned. The prophecy that had shaped her life, and the lives of those she loved, was not the guiding truth they had believed it to be. It was a web of manipulation, a tool of control, crafted by the very hands of Grandmother.

Ellagar glanced eastward, toward the dark shadow of the ancient Black Dragon. The specter lingered, ever more tangible in her thoughts, like a storm gathering in the distance. Why had Grandmother killed her own egg-daughter? And did they have the "final egg" the prophecy spoke of? There were so many questions, but the answers seemed to slip further out of reach with every passing day.

She turned her gaze back to the home they had made here, fingers tracing the pixie chain around her neck, the bright glass bead that glowed faintly with the Pixie Queen's promise.

Ellagar squeezed her fist around the bauble, feeling its warmth. *What am I going to do with an unreliable pixie promise?* she muttered. But even as she spoke, a flicker of hope sparked within her. Perhaps the fae's twisted sense of humor could be used against them.

The camp around her was alive with activity. Thelara, her clutch-partner, was deep in warrior forms, pushing herself to regain strength. The younglings—Verak and Ardvek—trained alongside her, fierce concentration in their movements. Verak's strikes were calculated, each one a promise of vengeance, quick and decisive. Ardvek's movements, on the other hand, were deliberate, each one carrying a quiet strength, as if he could feel the pulse of the world within his every strike.

Ellagar's heart swelled with pride, but also with fear. *Have they grown too fast?* she wondered. Two years since the boys had hatched, but it felt like decades. Dragons, and dragonborn, grew quickly—though they wore human faces, there was still dragon essence in them. Verak, slightly bigger, resembled an 8-year-old boy, while Ardvek appeared younger in body, but they were the same age.

Still, the storm they faced—both the one brewing outside and the one gnawing at her from within—was unlike anything they had ever encountered. The prophecy, once a source of hope, now felt like a noose, tightening around her neck. Every word twisted, every promise unraveled. Grandmother had not seen the future—she had shaped it. And the truth of that was both painful and dangerous.

Ellagar's voice was quiet, but firm. "The prophecy is not a fixed path. It's a series of choices—choices shaped by the hands of those who seek to control it. And I now know that Grandmother is playing us all."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of the revelation. With a deep breath, Ellagar made up her mind. "Thelara, I need to speak with her. Confront her. When we leave here, I won't have the Mother Tree to mask my mind anymore." She squeezed Thelara's hand, resolve hardening her voice. "I need to enter a full trance. Commune with Grandmother as deeply as I can. I must confront her directly, to know whether she speaks truth, or lies."

Thelara's expression darkened with concern, but she only nodded in agreement. "I'll watch over the boys. Be careful." She pulled Ellagar to her feet, the muscles of her arms taut with the strain of training. "But you can't do that here. And we should eat first—the storm's coming."